


Squirming At Your Feet-ish

by Orchidaexa



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), BDSM, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Dominant Aziraphale (Good Omens), Kink Meme, M/M, Submissive Crowley (Good Omens), Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 14:20:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20277301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orchidaexa/pseuds/Orchidaexa
Summary: The first time it happens, it's a slip of the tongue. Crowley is whining and whimpering, mourning the loss of touch from his cock, and the edge he'd been so close to is slipping away. And Aziraphale, in a soft, cooing lilt, talks to him. "So pathetic," he says, watching Crowley squirm. "You're beautiful like this."





	Squirming At Your Feet-ish

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt on [Tadfield Advertiser](https://tadfield-advertiser.dreamwidth.org/517.html?thread=407813#cmt407813)
> 
> Took me a couple of weeks to write.

The first time it happens, it's a slip of the tongue. Crowley is whining and whimpering, mourning the loss of touch from his cock, and the edge he'd been so close to is slipping away. And Aziraphale, in a soft, cooing lilt, talks to him. "So pathetic," he says, watching Crowley squirm. "You're beautiful like this." 

Aziraphale doesn't miss the twitch of Crowley's length when he calls him pathetic, but doesn't press the issue either, and Crowley is very glad that the angel can read him like an open book, knows that the angel can see how the coils of shame and heat have tangled, and is willing to patiently discuss what Crowley would like to hear. Crowley can see a glint in Aziraphale's bright blue eyes though, and that both scares and arouses him impossibly more. 

The next time, it is negotiated. Crowley has his hands tied behind his back, soft cotton rope that wouldn't hold him if he didn't want it to is a cage for his torso, and he is trying to grind against Aziraphale while the angel reads. He had been tied, told to wait, and allowed at his counterpart's feet. But his arousal is not letting up and he needs friction, needs and desires some sort of relief. 

"Pathetic," remarks Aziraphale idly, lacing his hand into Crowley's hair as the heat makes his cunt throb. "Can't even wait for me to pay attention to you to try and get off." The tone is light, even as Aziraphale jerks Crowley off balance and leaves him on the floor, where wetness streaks down Crowley's thighs. "I've met better behaved dogs than you." 

The angel leaves him to stew until he finishes the chapter, taking his time marking the page, carefully closing the book with a finality. "Look at you," he murmurs, and Crowley feels the dark stare appraising him, head to toe. "Crawling on your belly on the floor." That leaves certain connotations, things left unsaid, and Crowley gasps for air. 

It's not that time that Aziraphale calls him 'Crawly' though. Aziraphale is careful, tests boundaries with the same reverence that he gives to his books. They work out that the odd, impersonal and heavenly tone gives Crowley whiplash so fast that he cries, and Aziraphale is careful to keep that out of his voice. Of course, that might also be that Aziraphale told him to shut up in that odd, vacant tone, and Crowley sobs into Aziraphale's shirt about what heaven had been willing to do to him. 

Anyway. Crawly. The name is teased out one night. Crowley is bound on the floor, rough knots that are functional rather than beautiful, ball gag stretching his jaw uncomfortably wide and a chalk circle on the floor. Aziraphale is stood over him, watching the drool collect in a puddle on the floor, before dipping his fingers in and smearing a little on Crowley's face. 

"Filthy demon," he coos in that voice of his that leaves Crowley uncomfortably hard. "All aroused at being overpowered and bound by an angel." Aziraphale steps away and out of Crowley's sight lines, leaving him to writhe on the floor. The circle is a carefully constructed one, it ensnares Crowley and leaves him powerless. Normally these circles are able to be broken only from the outside, and Aziraphale has deliberately made it so that a purposeful smudge anywhere tears the power of the circle apart. Aziraphale has also included a word that will allow Crowley his powers, no matter who speaks it. Their safe word, an ancient sumerian word for wine that will likely never leave their tongues again in casual conversation. Crowley, if he had more than a brain cell left right now, would be deeply appreciative of how thoughtful and careful the angel is. 

Instead, Crowley is focused on the deep thrumming need that radiates from his own body. He whimpers as his cock twitches. The angel circles him, leather shoes drifting into his sightline. "If only hell could see you now," Aziraphale muses, leaning down to pull Crowley up by the hair. "The demon Crawly, serpent of Eden, squirming on his belly." 

Aziraphale looks as surprised as Crowley feels when cum paints the floor. 

It's later, with mugs of cocoa that Aziraphale insists on, and thick heavy blankets, that Crowley even begins to talk about it. Crowley's words falter often, and he doesn't seem to know how to process it. "It's a personal name, innit?" Crowley toys with strands of flame red hair that have tumbled onto his shoulder. "Closest thing to a true name I have, even if it is a bit…" 

Aziraphale takes advantage of the way he pauses to roll words around his mouth to fill in the gaps with words lifted straight from Crowley's explanation in Golgotha. "Squirming at your feet-ish?" Crowley startles with recognition and meets his blue eyes with a smile. 

"Yeah, that," he mutters softly. 

With infinite patience and a smile that has no place being as arousing and warming as it is, Aziraphale slides his hand along Crowley's jaw, cradling his face. "It connects us with a time before our arrangement." Aziraphale seems to be turning something over in his mind, and Crowley knows he'll hear it eventually. "A time when we were angel and demon, mortal enemies… And here you were, at my mercy." 

Bright blue eyes watch with curiosity as Crowley shivers, feeling the delicious quiver of arousal through his whole body. Aziraphale smiles wider, and Crowley feels pinned like a butterfly specimen. The blankets hide his rising cock, but he can scent the lust rising from Aziraphale's crotch. Sensitive senses have their bonuses when you're trying to tempt an angel. 

"Let me on my knees," Crowley whispers, eyes wide and unprotected. Aziraphale makes a strange noise. 

"Hands and knees." There's a sharp stare that sends a thrill of heat through Crowley, as he wills the blankets to drop from his corporation and settle, folded, on the sofa. His form crumples to land on parts that don't really make sense to Crowley, the sense that being this close to the ground means he should be a snake blares through his brain. But he trusts, eyes wide as he meets a chilled blue gaze. "Follow." The command is quiet, but it cuts through the ambient silence easily. Crowley does as he's asked. If he's hard from having his hair wrenched to pull him along faster, he won't say it. Aziraphale knows what effect he has on Crowley anyway.

They reach the bed just fine, Crowley's flat is accommodating like that. He's whining from having his hair so roughly manhandled, and Aziraphale has a look on his face that tells Crowley he's about to suffer in all manner of ways. 

"Sit." Crowley begins to rise to sit at the edge of the bed, and ends up sprawled across the floor. The stark concrete that makes the floor ideal for holding circles is rough under his hands, his cheek pressed against the cool slab. Aziraphale looks far too self satisfied for comfort, having just kicked Crowley's ankle out from under him. 

"No. Sit on the floor." 

For all his composure, or lack thereof, Crowley doesn't really have an answer to this, obediently regathering himself and settling in position. An angelic hand grasps Crowley's chin, tilting his head this way and that. He can feel his cock twitch with great interest as Aziraphale's gaze seems to bore straight through him. "Oh Crawly," Aziraphale says, his voice wrapped in a luxurious velvet that hooks barbs into Crowley's skin and flays him, "when will you learn that your place is on your hands and knees at best?" 

The angel, his angel, watches as Crowley's face colours, unable to control an instinct such as blushing right this second, and slides that pudgy hand to grip Crowley's throat. He squeezes, the hidden strength behind it making Crowley choke out a noise that can only be described as a whimper. 

"Your belly would be more apt," he continues on, watching as Crowley writhes, "but in this form you move more quickly when not confined to slithering in the dust." 

Whilst Crowley can feel his arousal slamming around his insides, disrupting and fighting to explode outwards, he is starting to get the feel that this time is about Aziraphale taking what he wants. And what he appears to want is the pleasure of watching Crowley blush, squirm and whimper. 

This lasts a few moments. Crowley can feel the angel dragging this out, knows what is happening and still he can feel his skin heating, still he feels exposed. Aziraphale finally sits, releasing Crowley's neck and revealing his effort as he undoes those needlessly complex trousers. "Suck, serpent," he commands, reaching out to drag Crowley closer by the hair. "Put that tongue of yours to good use." 

Normally Crowley would try and make a smart comment, even if the words grate and fall apart in his throat, but today... He makes a noise that cannot be confused with anything other than arousal and immediately flicks his forked and unnaturally long tongue out to lick down the length of Aziraphale's cock. He can feel his own length throb sympathetically as he traces a vein from root to tip, tasting the ridge of the head. He makes use of his tongue, looping it lazily around the delicious prick, palming his own with care. Aziraphale doesn't seem to mind, the fat length twitching in the confines of his serpentine and far too long tongue. Crowley slips it into his mouth, sucking, tasting, gagging when the angel bucks his hips. 

"Oh dear," Aziraphale purrs, and Crowley can feel the words along his spine. Experimentally, Aziraphale bucks again and this time Crowley tries to pull back when he gags, but a plump hand in his hair denies him. "Don't be stupid, Crawly, you're making a dreadful mess and you wouldn't want to displease me any more." 

Eyes stinging and watering, Crowley peers up, trying to make the conscious effort to turn off his gag reflex, but the ability evades him each time. Aziraphale smiles, and it edges as close to a smirk as one of angelic stock can reach. He wipes Crowley's chin, cleaning his fingers in the soft red hair that falls in thick ringlets from Crowley's head. "I thought you were a better cocksucker than this," he says and it pulls at the desire in Crowley’s mind to please Aziraphale, to show him that he can be the  _ best _ cocksucker around. He doesn’t really get the chance to prove it though, when Aziraphale pulls him forcefully along his cock. Crowley swallows desperately, trying to force back the reflex he hasn’t yet managed to shut down, and he closes his eyes. Lights dance behind them as he feels the soft curve of Aziraphale’s belly pressed against his head, and he luxuriates in this moment. That his throat finally rejects the thick cock buried inside it is not a surprise, and Crowley’s stinging eyes finally open to an underwater world as Aziraphale pulls him off of his length. Without saying a word, he wipes that beautiful fat cock against Crowley’s face, and Crowley can feel his own spittle clinging to his cheeks. 

The thing is, Aziraphale is strong. He has hidden strength, lurking behind those pads of fat, and it makes sense. His body is soft, plush, because he wants it to be, and Crowley thoroughly enjoys it. But he was also a warrior, made to fight and defend and use a sword. Rubenesque curves can hide that, but not make it any less of a fact. It’s with this excessive strength that Aziraphale uses to haul Crowley onto the bed, dumping him somewhat unceremoniously onto his belly, and his weight straddles his thighs easily. Soft thighs that can squeeze with preternatural strength, rounded belly that presses against Crowley’s back when he leans forwards. Manicured nails dig into Crowley’s flesh, and he hisses out and squirms.

"I am going to know you intimately, serpent." Aziraphale has a way of stating things that short circuits Crowley's brain. It shouldn't, it's so matter of fact, presented without a purr or velvet, but it's just knowing that Aziraphale can and will take anything he wants. "We can do this the easy way-" Soft and slick fingers caress a tight hole, "-or the hard way." The other hand grasps Crowley by the hair and forces his face into a pillow. "Which will it be?" 

Crowley doesn't need words to respond, he simply tries to buck Aziraphale off. The hand clinging to his hair tightens, and Crowley hisses. He knows what he is asking for, knows where this will lead him, and he is not above using a demonic intervention or two to make the way easier for himself. It also involves the press of Aziraphale above him, refusing to allow this twig of a man-shaped-being to buck him off. In a hazy part of his mind, Crowley thinks of Aziraphale in a cowboy hat and spurs, taming horses with soft touches and murmured words. 

Frustratingly, Aziraphale outlasts the flailing of his body. Crowley is not exactly made for the force that would be required to throw this angel off. Even back at the start, where they sometimes had to come to blows, Crowley excelled in  _ running away _ , escaping the grasp of an avenging angel by collapsing into serpent form and slithering to the nearest bolthole. 

At the start, the idea of an avenging angel didn't make him so hard he could cut diamonds. At the start, the thought had terrified him, the angelic wrath being turned his way could wipe him off the face of existence. Nowadays, even the merest sniff of smiting turns Crowley into a squirming, slithering mess. 

The strength Aziraphale once again displays allows Crowley to tense, fight against the touches, and then just  _ stop _ , confined carefully by hands that grip tightly, leaving finger shaped bruises that will last because Crowley wants them to, he is trapped by a weight that presses against his back, soft and copious flesh pressed against his ridged spine with too many vertebrae, and he is spread by feet that have hooked around his ankles and forced them outwards. Aziraphale's thighs are no joke. 

There's a deep chuckle, a breath in his ear, and Aziraphale's voice seems to have dropped an octave. "Just remember you chose this," he rumbles, soft as always. "You could have made it easy for yourself, fiend, but you chose to fight me. You'll know your place soon enough." 

It's with that, and several hasty miracles and interventions from both of them, that Aziraphale thrusts in,  _ hard _ . Crowley is just this side of too tight still, the way he wants it, so the entry burns in the best of ways, and he thrashes. He knows he can't escape the angelic grip, knows Aziraphale has him exactly where he wants him, so it feels more to be a token resistance than anything. It doesn't matter when it seems to set his angel ablaze, forcing Crowley's head into the pillows with a force that just has Crowley thanking whoever that he doesn't actually need to breathe. It's sensation, that burn, this lack of oxygen that he doesn't need but he's so used to that it's making him dizzy, this need and the thrusts and-

With the last of the air that was trapped in his lungs, he cries out, tenses, painting the sheets with white, and the angel  _ just keeps going _ . 

His nails have surely become claws, surely left holes in the covers, and Crowley is desperately writhing because everything is too much and he  _ can't  _ -

Aziraphale holds him fast, presses against him more, leans his substantial weight on Crowley's lithe body, which currently can't coordinate all the limbs and muscles and bones he has, more than he should, and he can't get away, can't escape, and he's oversensitive and he knows that Aziraphale knows that. It's too much and Crowley begins to break apart, his dick twitching as it rubs against the bed covers with every hard thrust, his eyes tearing up. Aziraphale is relentless. Crowley is a toy, a thing to be used, and he's spiralling into a headspace where he just goes limp. His body is Aziraphale's for the taking, and the angel is taking advantage of that. Thrusts become erratic, and Crowley feebly twitches as they nail against sensitive parts of his anatomy. He whimpers softly, even as Aziraphale's breath comes hot and wet against his neck, mouthing against a pulse point. 

When Aziraphale cums, it's a quiet and controlled affair. He tenses, letting out a slightly louder breath, and Crowley can't help but cry out as he feels angelic heat inside him. It burns momentarily, seeps into him and fights the occult energy that resides at his core. It shouldn't make his arousal begin to spike again, it shouldn't make him closer to orgasm, it shouldn't do anything other than make him cringe away. Crowley moans hotly against the pillows, twitching his hips hard. 

After a few breaths, Aziraphale pulls out, Crowley making a pathetic noise. Holy seed burns hot against his thigh before the sensation begins to fade. The angel presses soft kisses to his temple, sitting himself up and pulling Crowley into his lap. A soft hand wraps around Crowley's cock, moving with quiet sounds of flesh on slick flesh. 

"Good boy," Aziraphale whispers, and Crowley chokes on a breath. His mind is slowly coming back to him, Aziraphale's gentle hands bringing him into himself. His mind is no longer distant, no longer lost solely to sensation. "You did so well," he says, pressing kisses into Crowley's neck. Crowley clings on, and it takes a few minutes of Aziraphale's earnest movements before he whites out again, tightening his grasp. 

As he comes down, he can feel himself letting out huge, relieved sobs of breath. Aziraphale carries on kissing, fingers in Crowley's hair, and everything is cleaned up with a mere blink. Stickiness clears off his inner thighs, cooling stripes no longer cover the angel's hands, and the angel's voice is washing over him in a soft continuous wave of gentle praise. 

"M'exhausted," says Crowley, words pressing together. Blankets appear over them, Aziraphale pressing soft lips into his hair. 

"I know, dear boy." Another word, another kiss. "Sleep, I have my book." 

A quiet susurration of sheet against skin, and Crowley looks up with vulnerable and exposed eyes to peer into sparkling blue. There's a quirk of lip, a smirk, and Crowley pillows his head on the soft swell of Aziraphale's chest. He'll be there when Crowley wakes, a small pile of books beside him, and the soft warmth around them. 

Crowley closes his eyes, and sleeps. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me fangirling on [tumblr](https://cake-cow.tumblr.com)


End file.
